One day, when Frederick was upon the parade-ground, surrounded by his generals, he was told that Voltaire asked permission to be allowed to take leave.

The king turned quietly towards him.  “Ah, Monsieur Voltaire, you are resolved, then, to leave us?”

“Sire, indispensable business and my state of health compel me to do so,” said Voltaire.

The king bowed slightly.  “Monsieur, I wish you a happy journey.” [Footnote:  Thiebault, p. 271.] Then turning to the old Field-Marshal Ziethen, he recommenced his conversation with him.  Voltaire made a profound bow, and entered the post-chaise which was waiting for him.

So they parted, and their friendship was in ashes; and no after-protestations could bring it to life.  The great king and the great poet parted, never to meet again.

The end